


Volante

by a_xmasmurder



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012)
Genre: Aston Martin - Freeform, Blowjobs, Cars, Competence Kink, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Q Is Dangerous, Voice Kink, gratuitous car porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 08:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: “Know what it’s like to be caught between two powerful creatures, both vying for my undying adoration and loyalty? Of course. But I already have one wrapped around my finger. Now it’s time to tame the other.”





	Volante

**Author's Note:**

> An excuse to write car porn. I am shameless. The blowjob is an afterthought, really.

_ Exciting _ , Bond thinks, as he walks into the Automotive section of Research and Development. His heart always skips a beat when he goes near this department, without fail. He is enough of a man to admit that he has a certain...love affair with cars. God, he loves cars. Cars in general really rev his engines. He pauses by the check-in counter and winces. Ugh. That was bad, even by his standards. 

“Can I help you, Agent Bond?” The pretty blonde at the desk looks up from her computer and bats her eyelashes at him. 

He returns the gesture by throwing his signature smirk at her and nodding. “Why, yes you can, Miss…” He searches for, and finds, a name placard on her desk. How quaint. Married. “Mrs. Harrison. I’m looking for the Quartermaster. Is there a chance he could be here? I couldn’t find him neck deep in computers or mucking about in the server rooms. I fear for his safety if he’s near large machinery, you see, and I’m curious about the new transponder unit his team will be fielding for us next week.”

“Let me check for you.” Mrs. Harrison looks down at the screen and taps a few keys. The search takes less than a minute. “Yes, he is. Bay Three.” Bond straightens from where he’s been judging her personal space by leaning his hip against her desk. She stops him with a quick gesture. “There’s a ‘do not disturb’ flag on his badge, Agent. Seems there’s something important going on.”

“Must be calibrating the global positioning system. He never wants to be disturbed when he’s working his technological magic, ma’am.” He cocks his head and plays his hand. “Are you busy tonight?”

Mrs. Harrison smiles prettily, clearly intrigued but hiding it well. “Date night with my husband.”

Bond smirks again. “Oh, I’m sure. Lovely weather for a dinner on the wharf, isn’t it? Not a hint of rain in the air for another couple of days at least.” He slides his business card towards her. “Perhaps another time, then.” He winks and scans through the glass sliding doors before pushing through. 

It’s busy inside, and Bond tries not to fret. As overprotective and condescending as it sounds, he hadn’t been kidding about fearing for Q’s safety. Most of the people who work in this area, men and women both, are large and strong, capable of defending against the dangers of rogue machinery. Q is definitely not in this category. The man couldn’t possibly be more than ten stone soaking. Any one of the winches or jacks or lifts could crash down and crush the tech-head in moments. And with Q’s propensity for losing himself in his work and not paying attention to his surroundings, he’d never see it coming. Bond would rather not lose this Quartermaster to a work incident; he’s grown quite fond of the little man, and he didn’t want to break in another one.

Bond sweeps past numerous greasy and gritty mechanics, gazing at the multiple projects going on all at once down here. Land Rovers and Bentleys getting retrofitted with reactive armour and run-flat tyres; innocuous Fords and Mazdas being fancied up for undercover work, and prototype cars abound. Bond pauses at one of the projects. One of the brainchildren of the R and D department, this simple Lamborghini would soon have the capabilities of either a jet fighter or a submarine. He wasn’t sure which option appeals to him more. 

“Cooper! Come ‘round the front with that wrench, can you please? I can’t reach it from here.”

Q’s soft voice carries well over the floor, and Bond follows it to Bay Three, where he doesn’t find Q. What he finds is pure, unadulterated  _ sex on wheels. _

“Oh. Lord above,” he breathes as his eyes take in the brand new Vanquish Volante sitting in front of him. “She’s gorgeous.”  _ And she is. _ A deep grey beauty, a couple feet off the concrete on lifts - perfect eye level. James takes a step forward, and the lighting changes. The chameleon paint shimmers a pale beige, and James lets out a soft whistle. Then Q’s voice comes again.

“Cooper! The wrench, please?”

James looks down, startled to see two black Converse-clad feet sticking out from the side of the car. Those feet turn into two denim-clad legs, thin but nicely muscled, hips canting to balance the torso on the rolling cushion that the mechanic rolls out on from beneath the car - “Q!”

The Quartermaster jerks in surprise, banging his head on the body frame. “Ow, GOD! Fuck that hurt…” He grumbles around his grease-blackened hand. “Hello to you too, Agent Bond. Ow.” He pokes at the reddened bump on his forehead, smearing black over the skin. “Thanks for that.”

“What are you doing?” James is flabbergasted. What is Q doing under a car?

Q peers at him. “Work?” He shakes his head and gets up, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “I’m tightening the transmission on this Volante. I dropped it earlier to make room for some modifications to the frame. With any luck we should be able to place the rocket pods in a halfway decent position for maximum effect without compromising the detection-blocking shielding.”

James blinks at him.  _ He’s someone who knows his way around vehicles.  _ Thoughts are running through his overactive mind, thoughts that he really shouldn’t be having about his Quartermaster, by Jove. He focused on the Volante once more, searching for a conversation piece that doesn’t involve bending Q over the bonnet and licking his sweaty neck.  _ Jesus _ . “New Aston?”

“Yes. For missions.” Q sighs and waves at it. “There’s a couple thousand miles on her already, but I had to make sure she met the manufacturer’s specifications, and then  _ my  _ expectations. Only the best for our agents, of course.” He patted the side panel lightly, leaving very faint prints on the varnish. James can’t think for a moment. 

_ A man who knows his way around cars, and can apparently drive them, too. And he called it a ‘she’.  _ A warm sensation fizzes through his veins. Oh, lord. “Did she perform to your standards?”

“Mostly. That’s why I’m modding her. Has to stand up to the rigors of being an Agent’s car. What the hell was I doing, anyway?  Looking for Cooper and that blasted wrench. Where’d he get off to, anyway?” Q scans around, and shouts across the bay. “Cooper! The wrench?”

A short, stocky man appears a bay down from where they stand and waves to them. “Sorry, mate. Here. Don’t know what you want with it, anyway…” He walks over with a grimy wrench in his hands.

“Oh, for the love of…” Q snatches the tool out of Cooper’s hand and glares. “Present company excluded, I’m starting to wonder if muscle mass cancels out memory capacity.” James frowns slightly at the possible compliment as Q rolls his eyes. “I’m working on Marie!”

“Ah, right. Forgot, I guess?” The mechanic shrugs and walks off again. Q sputters something insulting and crass under his breath. 

James blinks some more, and turns to him. “Marie?”

“I name all of my cars.” Q huffs, flips the wrench in his hand, and nods. “Alright, going back in. Any plans for supper, Bond?”

“Not at this time.” James conveniently forgets about Mrs. Harrison. He has to say he’s very intrigued by Q’s sudden forwardness.

“Not even the pretty lady out at the check-in out there?” Q cocks his head and smirks. “That’s not like you.”

“I gave her my number. She has date night with her husband tonight, and they are clearly still smitten with each other, going by the state of her wedding ring.”

“Very astute observation, Sherlock.” Q lays back on the cushion and kicks out with one foot, propelling himself back under the Volante. “I’ll be done in an hour. We’ll drive to a place I like. Good Thai food for cheap, and the proprietor loves me. Sort of. I fixed their WiFi once because it was pissing me off, and now I get unlimited rice.” Metal on metal jerks James from staring at the only thing visible of Q while he was under the car - his hips. Lovely, lovely sharp hips in denim and a noticeable bulge at the crotch. 

Damn it.

“I’m going to go bother Moneypenny and make a general nuisance of myself. I’ll come back in an hour, alright?” James can’t believe he’s retreating. Him. Retreating. It’s unspeakable, and he’s debating hacking into the cameras to erase the evidence. As he leaves, he contemplates the whole exchange and shakes his head. It seems everything he’s assumed about Q has been very, very wrong. 

  
  
  
  


Bond’s phone alerted him at the hour, and he fought to ignore it and not go running down the corridor to find Q. Never in his life has such a small sound sent shivers down his spine. He’d been leafing through papers at the front desk of Accounts, trying to get his mind away from the image of Q’s hips and that car. Now, though, he has to face the firing squad, and he’d be damned if it doesn’t actually feel like it.  _ Had Q been making a pass at me? He had to have been. So simple and so blatant. Does he even make passes at people? Does he actually do people? Both in the figurative and literal sense?   _ Bond sets the papers down and flicks a quick salute to the security guards as he walks out the front doors, content to walk through the chill air to the motor pool. 

A deep-throated growl rumbles through the air behind him, high tones tweeting sweetly over the deeply enticing voice of a finely tuned engine.  _ Custom exhaust. Supercharged. Tuned to perfection.  _ Bond turns his head and goes numb with something resembling lust.

The Vanquish is a apparition in the fog, blue-white beams cutting thought the fog like so much soft butter.  _ Bi-xenon headlamps. _ The deep grey melts into the surrounding colours of the London background, muted and and soft. A predator lurking in the mist. 

Bond swallows the lump in his throat and prays it isn’t Q behind the wheel. Of course, he can’t be that lucky. The driver’s door opens, and Q flows out of the cockpit, looking much like the beast at his hip. He isn’t dressed in his usual hipster grandfather style, nor does he have the dirty jeans and vest combo that nearly had Bond up the wall earlier. No. Nothing can be that easy. What Q wears now is a knockout punch that Bond had no warning, no fucking  _ clue _ the man could deliver. A heather grey bespoke suit fills out his slight form, accented by a darker grey shirt. His hair is tousled just so, and his glasses are completely gone. There’s no tie to accent his neck, but the couple top buttons of the shirt are open to the elements - or to adventurous lips and teeth. Q may be dressed tastefully for once, but he’s also dressed to impress. 

Colour James Bond impressed. He gathers his wits about himself and smooths out his own suit jacket, shooting the cuffs. “It didn’t quite take an hour, did it, Q?”

Q makes an expression Bond isn’t aware he could make, and it turns the quiet tech wizard into something dangerous. “I allotted time to change, of course. I’m not a complete moron. When you take one of the most beautiful men in MI6 out for dinner, you dress accordingly.” 

Bond’s brain skips a gear and shudders.  _ Yes. He’s making a pass at me. Shit.  _ “I’m assuming you’re driving?”

The slight smirk tugging at Q’s lips draws Bond’s eyes, and he notices how red they are.  _ Jesus _ . “Of course. Wouldn’t want something happening to Marie so early in her undoubtedly short life, now would we?” He rests his arms, one over the other, on the door and cocks his hips out. Bond has to take a deep breath before he blacks out.  _ Apparently Q knows how to play this game. Is there anything the smug bastard can’t do? _ “Are you coming or no? I’m hungry, and they close in an hour to prepare for the night scene.”

“As you wish, Quartermaster.” Bond shoots a smooth grin Q’s way and steps off the kerb, rounding the nose of the car and opening his door with a small flourish. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eve and Tanner standing at the entrance to MI6.  _ Staring, no doubt.  _ He nods once to them and ducks into the - oh, Holy Mary. The  _ interior _ ! Smooth leather and plush quilting, done up in black and grey and a smart shade of teal. Brushed dark chrome knobs and carbon fibre accents.  _ Dear God, I’m in love. I’m in love with this car.  _ He steals a look at Q; the man is reclined in the racing seat, large hands wrapped around the steering wheel.  _ Have I noticed his hands before? Why have I never noticed his hands before? _ Bond swallows again, sucks in another deep breath and hopes Q doesn’t notice the effect the combination of the car and the man who made it are having on his heart. “Where are we going, again?”

“Thai. There’s a place in London, proper. Might take a bit to get to it, if the traffic’s a mess.” Q slides his hand down to the shifter paddle on the steering wheel; with a flick of his long fingers and a press of his foot they are off to the races. Quite literally. The Vanquish roars out of the half-moon, startling half a dozen pedestrians as Q gives the yield sign a moment of silence before leaping into a small pocket in traffic. Another flick of his finger on the shifter, and the engine growls throatily as Q shifts lanes, head stationary but eyes twitching around like a rally car driver, looking for spaces to slide into and speed zones to take advantage of. Bond slips his seatbelt on and grins, relaxing into the racing seat.  _ Christ, Q can drive.  _ The idea sends thrills rolling through his veins like liquid fire, lighting up his brain like fireworks as Q navigates the horrendous traffic. “It’s bloody seven in the evening, people are supposed to be home now. Why is it so damned hard to get across town?” Q doesn’t flinch as a lorry nearly clips them. He downshifts and swerves to avoid the collision, then pops up a notch and jets out in front. “Ah, there we go. Clear sailing until we reach Mama’s.”

Bond smiles as he notices the clear road ahead. “Tanner messing with the lights, again?”

Q shrugs as he opens ‘Marie’ up. The Vanquish seems to levitate with the new speed, making Bond’s stomach drop. God help him, but he loves this part. He tries to keep his attention equally on the car and the chameleon man piloting her. “Who knows? Sometimes I give him green all the way to his home and ensure that Agent Halloway hits every red light from Vauxhall to Lancaster. He may be repaying the debt.”  

Everyone knows about the personal war between the pretentiously jacked up 0018 and the Chief of Staff that started when Tanner beat Halloway on the mats a few weeks ago to the shock and horror of everyone in presence. How did no one know Tanner used to be a Royal Marine? He sure hadn’t. The next few lights are green, but Bond is certain that is down to the impeccable timing Q seems to have. Not everyone has the same God-like control over technology that the Quartermaster does. “How the hell do you drive the pile of rusted tin you call a car?”

Q smirks at the windscreen. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Bond flaps a hand at a creaky old Citroen. “I’ve seen your car. Doesn’t look like it’s seen a mechanic’s hand in decades. And it’s an American car.”

Q snorts and shoots Bond a derisive half-glare. “Pardon! That is a classic muscle car. A 1967 Chevrolet Impala with a 427 Turbo-Jet and a 4 speed manual. Not to mention the tweaking I’ve done to it since -” He does some fancy foot and hand maneuvering to avoid a hapless tween walking out into traffic with his head glued to his phone. Horns blare, and Q groans. “Damn your inattentive half-formed Neanderthalic brain matter! Ugh. Didn’t like the sound of that gearshift. Might want to avoid shifting without the clutch for the foreseeable future until I get that looked at.”

“What the - I didn’t know you could do that on purpose.” Bond did, indeed, know this; has employed the maneuver many times in car chases. He just wants Q to keep talking about cars. 

“Don’t be silly.” Q uses the clutch this time, and ‘Marie’ sounds much happier, purring through gears until Q presses his foot down and makes her roar once more. Bond’s fingers tingle with the lack of blood flow, seeing as all of it is being diverted to his groin. A couple minutes of comfortably intense silence - Bond’s favourite type - later, Q turns to him with a wolf’s grin and waggles his brows. “Wanna see something cool?”

Bond nods, completely unsure about what could be much ‘cooler’ than his Quartermaster driving  _ this _ car - 

Q slams on the breaks and cranks the wheel, executing a stunningly perfect arc into a parking space along the kerb in front of the Thai place. Bond’s cock twitches, half hard between his legs, and he’s having to swallow for a third time in an hour. He manages to hide it enough to get out of the car, only to watch Q exit with a small pat to the Vanquish’s bonnet. “There’s a darling girl. Only a bit warm. Wait until we get you out on the Autobahn, love. We’ll see what you are capable of. City driving just isn’t you.” Bond isn’t sure who Q is talking to - the car or him. Because at the last moment, Q looked at him from under his lashes and fringe, and Bond’s heart-rate leaps. Q smirks and shuts his door, motioning for Bond to follow him inside. Bond does so, with a last look at the brilliant piece of technology and engineering cooling in the damp air, then he follows the roll of Q’s hips and his delectable arse through the door. 

  
  
  


 

They settle in with a selection of Mama’s best, and Q digs in with vigor. Q hadn’t been kidding about the unlimited rice. The server brings out bowl after bowl of it, fried and plain, and Q attacks it like a panther on a binge. Bond picks at his curry and ignores the buzz of his mobile. Q looks up at the fifth ring and hums around a mouthful of food. “She’s persistent, that Mrs. Harrison.” 

“It’ll keep.” Bond scowls at the plate. “Isn’t this supposed to be sweet?” He’s not too familiar with London-ized Thai food, but he’s certain what he ordered was supposed to be sweet. Q reaches over with his chopsticks and snags a curl of prawn, popping it into his mouth. He also licks the bamboo clean. That flicker of tongue - not a lascivious display but a simple lick - does more to Bond’s brain than anything a lover on the prowl could do.  _ Jesus, Q isn’t even trying.  _ Q chews with a curious moue.

“I think it is. Supposed to be, that is.” Q cocks his head. “It isn’t.” He looks down at his. “Interesting. Try mine.”

Bond does. It’s sweeter. He likes it better. “Can I…”

“Of course.” Q pushes his plate to Bond, while sliding Bond’s over in front of him. He tucks into this one with the same intensity. It occurs to Bond that Q possibly hasn’t eaten all day. He accepts a bowl of rice from the server and eats in quiet contemplation of this side of the Quartermaster that no one ever sees. Everything that he’s noticed since this debacle started has already been filed, categorised and set aside. The dirty, sweaty mechanic Q that turns into the smoothly turned out professional driver Q starts to mesh with the technological wunderkind Q that turns into the mostly disheveled sleep-deprived Q who normally inhabits MI6. Bond wonders who else Q hides beneath his pale hacker skin. 

“So much for being smitten, Bond.”

“Hmm?” Bond looks back up at Q, to see that the man has already finished three bowls of rice and a plate and a half of veg and meat. “Where did you put all of it?”

Q grins at him. “I’m a hamster. Cheek pockets. Your phone’s been vibrating across the table for a minute now.”

“Ah.” Bond presses ‘ignore’ and slides it into his pocket. “I’m sure it’s a minor spat, nothing to concern ourselves over.”

Q regards him calmly. “You’ve also been staring at my hair for three minutes.”

“Have I?” Bond feels more confident, now that the snarky part of Q is showing itself again. Banter, he can do. “It’s plastered against your forehead.”

“Nice try.” Q still lifted the hand not holding the sticks currently -  _ he’s ambidextrous, interesting -   _ and flicks his bangs away. “You are thinking. Thinking and agents don’t quite mix.” It’s a joke, of course - every agent under Her Majesty’s purview has above average intelligence and the Double Os are borderline MENSA scholars. It’s a joke that Q and the other tech-heads love to use around them, just to see their various reactions. 

Bond fires a round across the bow. “Perhaps I’m envisioning what’d you’d look like sprawled on the bonnet of Marie.”

Q leans back in the chair just as another plate of steaming mixed veg slides in front of him. Bond had planned on that comment throwing Q off a little, but Q’s open body language tells him another story entirely. So too the sudden hungry smirk that pulls up the corner of Q’s red lips. “Oh, really, Mr. Bond? You aren’t known for your subtlety, but that’s forward even for you.”

Bond returns the smirk to hide his surprise.  _ Q’s bringing his whole game. _ “I shouldn’t think it’s too forward.” He leans in and ramps up his charm. “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” 

Q reaches out and plucks a water chestnut off the plate of veg and pops it into his mouth. “Know what it’s like to be caught between two powerful creatures, both vying for my undying adoration and loyalty? Of course. But I already have one wrapped around my finger. Dao! Can I have this to go?” He stands, smooth as water trickling over worn stones in a brook. He brushes off his jacket, and Bond will be damned if Q didn’t tug at his cuffs like a born and bred agent of the Queen. He turns away, then looks at Bond over one shoulder. “Now it’s time to tame the other. Come, Bond.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Back in the car, Q is quiet as he drives. He pilots Marie through the streets like he is born to sit behind the wheel of a technological marvel. Bond isn’t sure about this new silence, as much as he isn’t sure where they are heading. The cityscape slides away behind them as Q takes quieter and quieter streets that turn into a country lane two lanes wide. He slows the Vanquish to a crawl, then pulls over to the side of the road. He doesn’t turn Marie off, just lets her idle as he turns slightly in the seat and watches Bond. “You have certain...obsessions, don’t you Agent?”

Bond returns the soft look. “There isn’t much in this world I can be certain of, no. So the things I can have, I covet.” He reaches into his breast pocket to pull out his packet of Turkish cigarettes. “May I?”

“As Marie shall soon be yours, of course. I don’t see why not.” Q holds out a hand. “As long as I can have one as well.”

Bond smiles. “But of course.” He hands one over. “Call it an after-dinner aperitif.”

“Not quite what I had in mind, but it shall do for now.” Q chuckles and takes the proffered lighter and lights up. The next motion of his hand has both windows winding down to disappear into the doors. He takes a deep drag and inhales, letting the smoke curl out of his nose on the exhale. “Good tobacco, good cars, and amazing sex. Those are the things that keep you proper, aren’t they?”

“A well-aged Scotch will do it, too.” Bond has to say he’s curious to see where this conversation is leading.

“Perhaps we will go someplace nice after this,” Q muses. 

Bond cuts his eyes away from this delightful creature beside him and looks around him. The night is dark, but the songs of the night animals are curling through the still air like the smoke from their cigarettes. He takes a breath. “I don’t know. Not much can get nicer than this. Quiet countryside, cool air - I quite like it out here.”

“I come here sometimes, after work drives a stake through my brain, to contemplate things.” Q sighs. “You know what I’ve thought about the most when I’m out here?”

Bond shakes his head.

The look that Q gives him is nothing short of hungry. “Breaking the silence and scaring off the critters with your delightful noises as you come in my mouth.”

Jesus Christ. Bond nearly drops the cigarette into his lap. “Well, then.”

“What?” Q snorts.

“I believe that was about as forward as you can get, Q.” James tempers his surprise with a laugh and a drag of his cigarette. 

Until Q leans to him and lets his lips caress the very outer rim of his ear as he whispers, “Not at all, James. I can get much, much more ‘forward’, if you’d like.” He sighed, and shivers rippled down Bond’s spine, leaving fire in their wake. Q’s hand lay warmly on Bond’s knee, stroking gently. “I’d tell you everything I’d like to do to you, but I’d much rather show you. More fun that way, don’t you think?”

Bond realises which powerful creature Q still wants to tame. If he’d been standing, he’d no longer be doing so, not with that liquid chocolate voice purring in his ear like that. He leans slightly to the right, enough to bring them into contact at the temple. “It’s always more fun when there’s less talking and more doing.”

“Then let’s do.” The contact disappears as Q opens his door and steps out. There’s nothing Bond can do about the overwhelming need to follow, so he does. The doors slamming shut echo through the quiet air that has completely given over to the night. Beside them, Marie still idles, her burbling engine drowning out the majority of the insects. For once in his illustrious career, Bond isn’t sure where he should be standing to get the most out of this encounter. Q is still in charge, that is for certain. But where should he be? What should he do? The thoughts have him a bit out of sorts. He’s used to being the aggressor, the liontamer; the role reversal isn’t unsettling, but he feels…

Q comes around the boot, behind Bond. He makes just enough noise to make his presence known.  _ He knows his way around agents, _ Bond thinks, as Q hums. It’s almost an afterthought, that sound, and one that Bond is going to make damned sure he memorises. It’s one sound he’d love to hear every day, if he is so inclined. It’s a happy noise. Q’s large hands find their unerring way to his hips, fingers warm on the bespoke lines of his jacket and trousers. Bond swallows a hum of his own as Q lines their bodies up, back to front, and lays his chin on his sloped shoulder. “This is nice, is it not?”

“It is,” Bond breathes. He dare not speak louder, lest he break the sudden spell that has his whole body relaxing under Q’s careful fingers. Hands on hips turn into hands on sides, pressing through heather grey layers and kneading into hard-earned muscles. Bond breathes in, and Q breathes out; hot breath on Bond’s neck, tickling the hairs at the base of his skull. A soft touch of lips to the skin behind his ear, the wet tip of Q’s tongue sliding sweet along the shell of his ear. And the hands never stop moving, anchoring Bond to the earth and holding him steady as rivulets of fire flash along his veins. “God, yes, this is nice.”

“Oh, good. You are rather tactile, I’ve noticed.” Q licks a little more, then moves away to take Bond’s hand, never letting his fingers leave Bond’s body. “Around the front, please.”

Bond can’t say no, not now. Not ever again. He lets Q lead him to the bonnet of Marie, the lovely Vanquish. Q’s hands are moving again, roving up Bond’s chest and unbuttoning as they go. Soon, his jacket hangs loose. Q slips his hands beneath to slide it off Bond’s shoulders. Bond rolls his shoulders to help, and it falls to the bonnet, the cuffs trapping his hands. Q steps back, just a little, and observes. “My God, James, you are beautiful.”

Bond smirks, despite the position reminding him of one too many beatings. “You keep calling me beautiful.”

“That is because you are. A work of art, the great composition of the century. A masterpiece. May I?” Q steps forward again, his hands reaching for the jacket. “You do trust me, yes?”

A flare of something that isn’t lust rushes into Bond’s brain. “Depends on what you are about to do.”

“There is no way I will let anything happen to you. Not while I breathe.” Q’s hands tighten in the fabric. “At any point in this, you can say no. What I’m going to do is snog you until all you can think about is my lips on your body. But I need you to trust me.” Q’s eyes sparkle wetly in the darkness, and Bond swears on his own grave that they are as black as the sky above them. “Do you trust me?”

_ Now or never, I suppose. _ “Yes.”

Q’s hands don’t leave the jacket as he leans forward the rest of the way and kisses Bond proper for the first time since this began. It doesn’t start slow, and Christ, he’s thankful for that. This whole night has been foreplay, a means to an end. Q’s reeled him in, and now he’s landing him. Marie is hard against the backs of his thighs as Q presses against him, taking his mouth heavy and hot with just the right amount of tongue to make his knees weak. 

_ Alright, the role reversal might not be so bad after all. _

He has to bite back a groan as Q’s thigh wiggles its way between his legs and presses against his full cock. Suddenly, Q pulls back from the kiss and turns his heated gaze on him. 

Bond pants slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“This won’t do, James.” Q leans further in, pressing even harder with his thigh. Bond has half a thought to compliment Q on his strongly muscled legs, but his eyes roll back in pleasure when Q licks a wet stripe up his neck. 

“Christ. What...what won’t do?”

Q growls at him, deep in his chest, and releases his jacket long enough to push both hands hard against his chest. The shove sprawls him onto Marie’s bonnet, startling a grunt out of him. His arms are trapped behind him. Somehow, he’s alright with this, and that startles him even more. Perhaps it’s the trust thing. He lays like that, waiting for Q to respond. 

Of course, instead of speaking, Q runs his damnable hands up Bond’s shirt, to his shoulders, and leans down again. He pushes down, lightly, and Bond’s hands squeak on the lacquered surface of the Vanquish as he slides down enough that he has to plant his feet wide on the gravel. Q glances down and smiles. “That’s a darling... perfect.” He hums again and steps into the V of Bond’s legs, one leg pressed once again against Bond’s clothed cock, the other pressing against his outer thigh. Q leans down again, his hands splayed on either side of Bond’s head, and he breathes the same air. He’s nose to nose with Bond. Bond wants to nip him. Then he’s gone, dipping his head to sink his teeth into the side of Bond’s neck, right above his collar. 

Bond jerks beneath him, riding Q’s thigh and gasping. After all the soft touches, this feels like a hammer to his nerves. “Oh, fuck!”

Q releases the bite. “There we go. Much better,” he hums into Bond’s pinking skin. “I want you to moan. I want you to make noise. We are nowhere in particular, James. Scream for me.”

“Jesus…” Bond breathes. He turns his head and traps Q’s mouth with his own, kissing him like he needed Q’s lips to live. 

They stay like this for a while, trading biting kisses and breaths. Marie rumbles against Bond’s back, against his arms still trapped at the wrists. He snakes his body, feeling the give of his jacket and the sleek metal beneath him, and it grounds him. Q’s soft and hard against him, his hands roaming slowly as he takes what he wants from Bond. Between kisses, he whispers encouragement and platitudes in his ear.  _ So good, giving yourself to me, yes, perfect, let me hear you, let me… _

Bond closes his eyes and groans just for Q, nipping hard at the man’s red lips. Q’s reaction is instantaneous and barely contained; the way he rolls his whole body along Bond’s sprawled torso begs for more. Bond smiles against Q’s lips and groans again, this time dropping his head back against the bonnet and letting Q litter thank yous in pinking bites along the taunt skin of his neck. Q moves down, his mouth never leaving Bond’s skin as he plucks shirt buttons open with nimble fingers. Each inch of skin is lavished with attention as it’s revealed. Air touches the wet trail left by Q’s tongue and makes Bond shiver with the sensation of hot and cold. All the while, he obeys his Quartermaster’s rules and makes noise. It’s not forced, of course - there’s no way he’d be able to keep quiet, not with the way Q’s taking him apart inch by glorious inch. He just stops holding back. With his hands trapped behind his back, he can’t guide the man on his downward trek. He doesn’t know what’s coming. 

It’s fucking  _ thrilling _ . 

Bond yelps when Q bites his hip hard while dropping his trousers to the gravel, exposing his pants and bare thighs to the night. “That’ll leave a mark.” He’s already sounding like he’d been at it for hours, and it’s only been minutes.  _ God damn. _

“Intentional, I assure you.” Q hums into his inner thigh and strokes the soft cotton of Bond’s pants. “Unexpected, James.”

“I suppose you expected bespoke?”

“At least a deep shade of grey silk.” Q strokes along the hard edge of Bond’s cock, which twitches in anticipation along with every muscle in Bond’s torso. “I like this, though. Shows your practicality.”

Bond mustered enough brain cells to roll his eyes at the off-handed compliment. “You gathered this from my pants?”

Q chuckles and opens his mouth, leaning down to press it against Bond’s clothed cock. Bond lets his mouth run wild. “Oh, Christ. So good, that feels so good…”

Q hums against him, making Bond shiver again. Damp cotton and the heat of Q’s mouth work in tandem to turn him into a panting heap of bespoke and muscles against Marie’s bonnet. Bond never thought a blowjob through pants would feel so damned decadent and filthy, but here they were. Q’s tongue works against the head of his cock, pressing and rubbing the material along his hard length. It feels fantastic and mind-melting. Bond’s moans grow louder and more wanton, and he can’t stop them. There’s no way. Not with the humming and the words rumbling against his cock and thighs, and the devilish fingers sliding smoothly along his calves. 

Suddenly, that warm mouth is gone, and Bond makes such an agonized whine he worries himself.  _ Christ, that’s not even a proper fucking blowjob and I’ve gone mental over it. _ Then the cool air hits and he shudders. Q’s fingers hook into the waistband of his pants and pulls them roughly down his thighs, fully exposing him. Bond shudders again. “Christ, thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet, James. I haven’t even gotten started.” Q’s looking up at him through his ridiculous fringe, on his knees in the dirt and cupping the backs of Bond’s knees with his hands. “I will have you screaming by the time I’m through with you.”

Bond can’t help but laugh. “That sounds like a threat.”

Q’s only response is a hum as he rubs his face between Bond’s legs, much like a cat. The soft caress of his hair along his over-sensitive shaft fades Bond’s vision a little. A groan rumbles out from his chest when Q licks the crease of his thigh, and he nearly shouts when that hot mouth finally envelops the head of his cock. “Fuck, so soft,” he moans. He wants desperately to dig his fingers into Q’s unruly mop of hair, but his hands fist uselessly at the base of his spine. 

Q works him like one of his projects, every movement precise and every touch designed to drive him closer and closer to the edge of reason. His hands move, too; one plays along his left leg, the other caresses gently under his balls, stroking his perineum in tandem with the bob of his head. Bond throws his head back again, banging it against Marie. His hands squeak on the paint, his shoulders slide as he opens his legs as wide as the bunched fabric around his ankles allow. A distant self-preservation instinct shouts at him that his extremities are trapped and he is effectively a prisoner, but he ignores it. 

He trusts Q. Q isn’t going to hurt him. He might drive him completely around the bend, but it’ll be a hell of a ride. 

The fire inside him builds, slowly at first. The steady rhythm of Q’s mouth on his cock guides Bond through peaks and valleys of pleasure. The moment his thighs tremble with strain and need, Q backs off and slows his pace. When Bond gentles, Q sucks hard and gets him right back to the edge. Beads of sweat break on Bond’s brow, on his collarbones and chest. His hands scrape against Marie’s bonnet. There’s no pattern, no prediction to what Q is going to do next. The hand between his legs hardens suddenly and fingernails scrape along the damp skin behind his balls. Bond gasps, jerks - and his orgasm roars up from the depths of his very core, the fire flaring hot and bright behind his eyelids. He comes so hard he’s sure he dents the bonnet with the back of his head and he knows Q got his scream. His whole body tenses for what seems like ages until everything flows out of him on one gust of breath. He feels himself sagging, sliding along the bonnet until Q catches him in his arms. Q holds him against his body, breathing hot and heavy on his flushed skin. When he finally stops shaking and gasping, Q gathers him up and displays his strength by lifting him right off the bonnet. His arms are free. The first thing he does is wraps them around Q’s shoulders. 

“Oh, you…” Q breathes. “You darling, you gorgeous thing.” He pets at Bond’s hair. “You’re so good for me.” He presses a kiss on Bond’s forehead. “Thank you.”

Bond chuckles, but he doesn’t yet have the ability to speak. He feels truly relaxed. All he wants to do is spend a quiet night with this impossible man. He lifts a heavy arm and presses his fingertips against Q’s mouth to shut him up. He’s getting the feeling that Q fills quiet spaces with noise. It’s not necessary. He will teach Q the value of quiet. As they stand together at the front of the rumbling Vanquish, Q lets out a laugh. Bond cocks his head in query. 

“Oh, nothing. It’s just…” Q smiles at him. “The animals are back at it.”

Bond lifts his head and listens. Sure enough, the wildlife are making noise once more.

“Well, now you know the answer to one of your fantasies, Q.”

“I surely do.” Q’s smile doesn’t leave his face, but it morphs into a look that Bond is beginning to know all too well. “Now I need to know how you sound everywhere else.”

Bond sighs. “You are going to be the death of me.”

“Perhaps. But it’ll be fun.”

Bond nods and holds his Quartermaster closer. “The best sort of fun.”

  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Volante](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14418492) by [Loolph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph)




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